


nothing but recovery

by shuofthewind



Series: Le Monde Solaire [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Female Bilbo, Fluff, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Sickfic, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/pseuds/shuofthewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue is not a good sick person. Kíli and Tauriel make up for it. Prompted by lazytologin. </p><p>  <em>[Blue’s head rocks against Tauriel’s collarbone like a child’s would. All of a sudden, she’s too tired to particularly care. “If you bite him, you will pass on the sickness, and I’m fairly sure that he would be an even worse patient than you, aew, a’maelamin.”</em></p><p>  <em>“Not fair,” Blue mumbles, tucking her nose into her scarf. Her hair is tangled and almost black with how dirty it is. “Two against one.”</em></p><p>  <em>“No,” says Kíli at the same time. “She’s worse than me.”]</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but recovery

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from _lazytologin_ that caught fire in my brain. A little different from the prompt itself, but...I mean, it ended up int eh same place, so I hope it's okay?
> 
> Prompt: _The three of them are floating along, happy as can be, when Blue gets sick. Not “I’m going to die” sick, but enough that she has a head-cold and shivers all the time, prompting Kíli and Tauriel to go from 0 to 60 real quick with concern. Blue is flattered but also just wants to go to bed with a lover on each side._
> 
> Triggers for: drowning, some really nasty, infected blisters, battlefield first-aid, and gigantic mites. Tread with caution if these aren't your cup of tea. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed!

It starts when she falls into one of the underground lakes deep beneath the lower levels of Erebor.

It’s phenomenally stupid, really. She’s been working on trying to fix the lands around the Lonely Mountain for _months_ —coming close to a year, now, truth be told—and she’s found nothing wrong with the surface, truly. So whatever is coming up and killing the grass and trees she plants must either be coming from above or below, and with the ravens watching at all hours, there’s no one who would dare try to stop her above.

Which leaves below. The catacombs, the aborted mining tunnels, the cave-ins, the dark places. Kíli insists on going with her, as do Fíli and Bofur, but Lady Dís puts her foot down at _both_ of Erebor’s princes vanishing off into the depths beneath the mountain. So in the end, it is Blue, Kíli, and Bofur who take one of the tunnels down into the deep. The morning before, Tauriel sets out on a diplomacy mission back to Mirkwood. To be entirely honest, Blue isn’t certain what Tauriel’s status is in the Greenwood any longer (Thranduil banished her, and then unbanished her if one could even do that, and Tauriel lives in Erebor, and—) but it means that she wakes up on the morning of their undertunnel mission with only Kíli, and not Kíli and Tauriel as she’s grown used to far too soon. It offsets her.

They scout through the tunnels from dawn until dusk, or so Kíli tells her. Blue’s stone-sense isn’t nearly so sharp as a dwarf’s, and even if she can tell up from down and north from south she’s still not entirely sure when the sun rises and sets without the sight of it. They’re underground for a week, and then two, and they’re creeping into the third when they finally stumble down a side-tunnel in an old emerald mine that isn’t marked on Bofur’s map and find the nest.

Smaug took Erebor as his own for six decades and more, and having a dark dragon reside in the Lonely Mountain brought other dark things to huddle in the shadows. These are mites, of a sort, but they’re noxious; they spray a stinging yellow liquid when Blue finally hacks past their rough hides. Kíli, behind her, is drawing and loosing with the same cold steady eye that she remembers from the plains outside of Imladris, and Bofur is a whirl of leather and mattock. It ends almost before it begins, but when it’s over her good coat that she’d been kitted out with in Rivendell has acidic scores all down the side, and there are great white bubbles on the backs of her hands where the liquid touched.

“Stone mites,” Bofur says once they’re finished; he wipes the point on his mattock along the edge of a mossy rock. “They’ll be your trouble, right enough. Burrow up through the earth and poison it in their wake. Leeches up into the water above. There’ll be more of ‘em, to cover such a wide area. We’ll have to send patrols.” He curses under his breath. “Damn and blast the things. We’ll have to lance those, before they get infected. Come on, there’s a lake this way.”

Blue looks down at her hands, and lets out a hissing breath through her teeth. Kíli’s beside her at once, palms brushing over hers; he’s careful not to touch the swelling places. She makes herself smile, though judging by the way his mouth tightens it’s not much of a one. “Dratted bugs," she says. “But now I’ll have scars on my hands to go with the rest. Not so bad.”

Kíli huffs a little, braces his hand against the back of her head, and kisses the edge of her hair. “You’ll not scar if Óin sees to them,” he says. “And Tauriel ought to be back by now. She’ll know what to do.”

She’s on the verge of telling him that they don’t need something so precious as elf medicine for a few blistered burns, but then Kíli searches her face and leans forward to set his forehead to hers, breathing quietly, and she can’t quite find it in herself to disagree.

“Come on, princeling,” says Bofur, in the tone that means _I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that even though I did_. “And you, Blue. Best get those clean as soon as possible.”

The lake is so deep and wide that it must be part of the Long Lake, or a run-off point; Blue sits on a rock on a nearby ledge with Bofur as Kíli, the better climber, scrambles down the sheer rock face to the edge of the water. The blisters are starting to throb, now, like when she gets infected splinters but a thousand, a _million_ times worse. Blue grits her teeth and bends at the waist, fighting off the urge to press her hands tight into her belly. It won’t hide them, just hurt them more. Kíli’s back up in a trice with three full flasks of water, and Bofur sets to with his needles.

Cleaning the blisters is, perhaps, even worse than leaving them, and pouring water on the remnants makes her scream. Kíli stands at her back, arms braced over hers, whispering in her ear in Khuzdul as Bofur holds her hands in an iron grip and pours icy, burning water over the backs. The pus smells like acid and scorched things, and when it’s over and they’ve tied clean cloth over her hands (or as clean as they can get, down in the tunnels) she’s woozy from the pain of it.

Which is, of course, when one of the mites they missed comes crashing through their only passageway out, the reason why Blue trips over her own feet and falls off the ledge, down into the dark of the lake.

Hobbits can’t swim. Most have a deep, fundamental distrust of water—except for the Brandybucks, who everyone considers quite odd, and even then they only float around on little coracles. Blue can keep her head above water, thanks to the dwarves, but that’s in normal water, fresh and clean and cool, not this. This is part of the Long Lake, and she’s been cold before but never like this. She feels frozen even when she breaks the surface, so she bobs under again, flailing with stiff arms as she tries to stay above water. She hears someone call her name on the third or fourth attempt, and then she slips under, and the world is silent.

The next thing she knows is hacking up mucky lake water onto someone’s trousers. Her lungs feel as though someone has reached inside her chest and wrung them out like old sponges. Her vision is blurred and fraying at the edges, and she has to squint before she realizes that the fuzzy thing hanging over her head is actually Kíli. His nose is broken. She wants to kill something.

“Lie still for a minute,” he says, when she tries to get up. “You tried to swallow half the lake.”

“I feel like someone hit me with Dori’s hammer,” she says, and her voice is _terrible_ , all smoky and disgusting. Kíli’s laugh catches, and he leans down, setting his forehead to hers again. She’d kiss him if she could muster up the energy, but lifting her head is torturous.

“ _Amrâlimê_ ,” he says. “Try not to frighten us like that. Please.”

“I’ll do my best not to fall off a cliff again, then.” She blinks, slowly. “Can we go home now, please?”

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Bofur’s gone to get our things. We’ll go as soon as you can stand.”

Since they don’t have to sweep every single side-passage and examine every single tunnel, it only takes four days for them to get back to Erebor. By that time, Blue’s shivering and snuffling and sneezing like she has hay-fever, and Kíli is driving her mad with his fussing. He’d done this at Laketown, too, she remembers, after the ride down the river had given her such a terrible cold that she’d been stuck sharing Sigrid’s bed for three days. Bard had pitched a royal fit at having a young male dwarf sitting by his daughter’s bed at all hours, even if it _was_ currently occupied by a hobbit with a head-cold, but Balin had finally convinced him that it was all right. She’s pretty sure, now, that Balin had made something up (or told the truth) about her wearing Kíli’s braid and them being—affianced, or something, which makes her flush to think of it now because she didn’t _know_ and—

Still, it worked all the same, even if by the end of it she wanted to brain Kíli with a chamber pot for being absolutely _ridiculous_ about the whole thing.  

This, she thinks vaguely, is worse; she’s never sneezed so hard to give herself a bloody nose before, and putting her fingers to her face for them to come away bloody hadn’t been pleasant, on multiple fronts. Nor has she woken up in the night shivering as if they’re running from wargs. She has a fever—even she can feel that—and she can’t quite swallow properly, since her throat is so swollen. Her head is buzzing, and she’s having strange dreams, and her nose is so stuffed she can’t breathe sometimes.

She really does not want to know what she swallowed, flailing around in that lake. She is _not going to think about it_.

Still, that doesn’t mean that Kíli should fuss. It’s not—smothering, exactly, because he does know well enough when to leave her alone and when to tease and when to pass her rags for her overflowing snot generator that’s taken up residence inside her skull, but he also doesn’t actually let her out of his sight. The only time they’re not within sight of each other is when she has to relieve herself, and as soon as she’s back he’s checking her for a fever again, and offering her tea even though the only leaves they have have been steeped so many times she’s just drinking hot water, and asking if she wants anything, and—

He’s fussing. It’s smothering. And Blue is not good at being sick.

Also, she’s getting a headache.

She never thought she’d be glad to see the deep green stones of Erebor, but she nearly cries when they finally break out of the undertunnels and step forward into the welcoming halls. _Chambers filled with golden light_ , Thorin had said, and they’re slowly becoming that again, but for now the light is sputtering and more of a topaz color when they heave their packs (or she wraps her scarf tighter around her neck, since Kíli had confiscated her pack from her in a fit of dwarfish pique) up over their shoulders and step out into the light. As soon as the watch catches sight of them, a massive drumbeat starts up, to greet the second Prince of Erebor. Bofur grins at her, and knocks his forehead to her temple affectionately. His hat itches.

“Feel better, little Baggins,” he says, and then he vanishes off into the crowd. Blue wobbles on her feet for a moment, trying to keep her balance. Kíli snags her hand again.

“Bed,” she tells him, before he can say anything. “Thorin. And then a bath. And then bed. And tea. In that order.”

Kíli chuffs a laugh. In the warm torchlight he looks pale, for some reason, his scruff very dark against his cheeks. “Bofur will report to Thorin. You’ll rest.”

“But I have to—”

“Blue,” he says, and gives her that _look_ , the one that she can’t say no to. “Bofur will report, and I’ll go find Tauriel. You _rest_.”

“Fusspot,” she mutters under her breath, and tries to snatch her pack back from him, but her sense of coordination is shot. She nearly tumbles to the floor instead. Kíli catches her by the shoulder, and checks her fever again (disguising it as a touch to the back of her neck, which is sticky and clammy and sweaty and not a place she would really want him to touch, normally). He frowns, and then gives her a speculative look.

She knows that look, too. “If you even _think_ of trying to carry me, I will beat you over the head with Orcrist.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I might carry you anyway.”

“I will _bite_ you.”

“Not until you’re well again,” says a third voice, soft and exasperated. Blue yelps as someone _much taller than her_ scoops her up off the cold floor with about as much effort as blinking. She’s sure she smells of dirt and tunnel muck and monster blood and lake algae and all sorts of horrid things, but Tauriel holds her close anyway, her fingers curling around Blue’s shoulder. Blue’s head rocks against Tauriel’s collarbone like a child’s would. All of a sudden, she’s too tired to particularly care. “If you bite him, you will pass on the sickness, and I’m fairly sure that he would be an even worse patient than you, _aew, a’maelamin_.”

“Not fair,” Blue mumbles, tucking her nose into her scarf. Her hair is tangled and almost black with how dirty it is. “Two against one.”

“No,” says Kíli at the same time. “She’s worse than me.”

Tauriel mutters something under her breath in Sindarin. Blue’s about eighty-five percent certain that she heard the words _stubborn_ and _foolish_ mixed up in there. She can’t work up the energy to huff about it.

“I was promised a bath,” she says. “And tea. And bed.”

“And you shall have them,” says Tauriel solemnly. “As they were promised.”

In a foggy part in the back of her head, Blue wonders how Tauriel came to find them so fast, when the drums had only been ringing out for a minute or two. Then she dozes off.

The bath is lovely. She has to soak herself three times in the cool water (not quite as hot as she would usually like, but as she has a fever, it wouldn’t have been a good idea) before all the grime finally sloughs off, and Tauriel insists on tugging her fingers through Blue’s hair as she rests in the tub. Kíli sticks his head in about halfway through Blue’s ablutions, his hair damp and curling against his shoulders; his nose looks better, though it's still quite broken, because someone's taped it up a little. Finally, once the water is too cool to be comfortable, she’s given a nightgown and her favorite dressing gown from Bag End, the one made up of bits and ends of old silk fabrics. When she finally curls into bed, it’s with a mug of Tauriel’s tea (which is full of herbs that would make her sneeze, normally, but as she can’t actually smell them it’s all right) and Kíli flopped on her other side, already half-asleep. She can’t fight off the urge to pick her fingers through his hair once or twice before she looks at Tauriel.

“Give me your hands,” Tauriel says. “There is no infection yet, but we must keep it that way.”

“Don’t you start too,” says Blue, setting her tea down and offering her hands. Tauriel smooths a balm over the raw skin (it turns hot, and then cold, and then a pleasant kind of warm that makes the tension leak out of her). “Kíli’s terrible.”

“M’not,” Kíli mumbles, and hooks an arm around her waist, pressing his face into the small of her back. “You’re terrible.”

“I am a horrid sick person,” says Blue, and sniffles. “But you _hover_.”

“Dwarrow do not fall ill easily,” says Tauriel quietly, as she begins to layer Blue’s hands with gauze. “When they do, it is quite often deadly. It is an understandable sort of terrible.”

Kíli tightens his arm around her waist and says nothing, which in and of itself says volumes. Before Blue can do something silly like start crying—she’ll cry later, when she’ll be able to breathe after—Tauriel continues. “But there is no infection in your hands. You will be well again within the week, if you sleep. And rest. And _sleep,_ ” she adds again, moving to Blue’s other hand. “The herbs will help, but the only real recovery that can be achieved here is if you allow your body rest. No more tromping off into tunnels. We’ll be watching to make certain of it.”

Blue opens her mouth. Then she closes it again. Then she says, “You’re not as bad as Kíli. You’re _worse_.”

“Good,” says Tauriel, and finishes the wrapping. “Now. Lie back.”

Blue obeys. She grumbles, but she obeys, and Tauriel puts her little kit of medicines away before coming back and tucking herself in on Blue’s other side. The tea has helped just enough that Blue can catch a hint of sage from Tauriel’s clothes, the rosemary from Kíli’s hair. Kíli’s settled his arm over her waist and hidden his face in her hair, breathing quietly, already nearly asleep. Blue blinks a few times, and then reaches up with one hand, brushing her fingers over the edge of Tauriel’s collar.

“How did you find us so quickly?” she says. “The drums had only just started when you arrived.”

Tauriel resettles herself, tucking one hand under her head, and then reaches out to brush a few damp strands of hair out of Blue’s face. “The mission to the Greenwood was well received,” she says. “I returned a week early. There is a tea shop in the area around the tunnels that serves good lemon pound cake.” She hesitates, and then dips her chin a little to hide her eyes behind her hair. It’s long and loose, for once, and Blue’s fingers are itching to play with it, but she’s really too sleepy to move much. “I waited.”

Blue hiccups. Her eyes burn. She tucks herself closer to Tauriel, and hides her face in her shirt. “You love,” she says. “You lovely, lovely…love. I love you.”

“We love you,” rumbles Kíli from behind her, and then he reaches out and strokes one hand down Tauriel’s arm. “But _sleep_.”

Tauriel’s smile is so shy and wonderful that Blue desperately wants to kiss her. But she’s sick, and she can’t really lift her head from the pillow right now, and look at that, her eyes are closing. She’s warm for the first time in days, she can _almost_ breathe through her nose thanks to miraculous elf tea, Tauriel is perfectly, brilliantly perfect, Kíli is just as lovely, and she’s happy. She’s _happy_.

It’s so silly that that should make her cry. So she sleeps, instead.


End file.
